


Ricochet

by vipjuly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cas Gives A Gun A Blow Job, Gun Kink, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 06:19:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14182746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly
Summary: There’s something about Dean Winchester when he has a weapon in hand. Castiel thinks a gun looks best in Dean’s fingers, cradled in his palm, the way that it becomes an extension of Dean himself. The glint of metal, the tang of gunpowder in the air - the way that Dean’s nail beds are always grimy with residue - it all suits the man incredibly well. When Dean shoots there’s barely any recoil, his firm frame absorbing the shock without any sign of weakness. Revolver, shotgun, glock, pistol. Firearms in the hands of Dean Winchester become much more than deadly, they become… art.Dean Winchester is the most dangerous weapon ever invented.





	Ricochet

There’s something about Dean Winchester when he has a weapon in hand. Castiel thinks a gun looks best in Dean’s fingers, cradled in his palm, the way that it becomes an extension of Dean himself. The glint of metal, the tang of gunpowder in the air - the way that Dean’s nail beds are always grimy with residue - it all suits the man incredibly well. When Dean shoots there’s barely any recoil, his firm frame absorbing the shock without any sign of weakness. Revolver, shotgun, glock, pistol. Firearms in the hands of Dean Winchester become much more than deadly, they become… art.

The precision with which Dean handles all of his guns is masterful. Dismantling, cleaning, assembling, loading. A task that is either monotonous or purposeful depending on the time of day, Dean does it with such practiced ease Castiel almost laments the man Dean Winchester _could_ have become.

But then _this_ Dean Winchester is standing in front of Castiel - behind Castiel - next to Castiel - raising his gun and shooting with confidence that he’ll hit the mark every time. Monster, ghoul, werewolf, demon, human. Dean shoots to make contact, not to scare. The rigid lines of his tensed fingers, the straightness of his normally lax arms, Dean Winchester transforms from aloof and laid back to laser focused killing machine whenever there’s a weapon in his hands. 

Castiel thinks about Purgatory often. The way it changed Dean. The way it broke Dean and then put him back together. 

Bang. 

Dean doesn’t even blink when he fires. There’s hardly a recoil when his weapons discharge and he doesn’t even need to check to see if he hits his targets, because he knows he does. Castiel feels a jolt every time Dean fires a gun. It’s different than machetes, knives, or crowbars. Those weapons are so… brutish. Undeserving of the finesse that Dean Winchester can wield them with. No, a gun - any gun - is what Dean needs in his hands in order to carry out his death wishes. Flashes of metal, blinks of fire, puffs of powder. Finger on the trigger, Castiel can count the wrinkles in Dean’s knuckles whenever he holds a gun. 

Dean could put any professional to shame.

Dean _is_ a professional. 

Castiel has always thought Dean beautiful in his own right. His soul. His face. His body. Castiel knows the man molecule by molecule and yet, against his better judgment, the Dean he prefers is the Dean making his enemies stare down the barrel of his gun. 

Like Castiel is currently staring down the barrel of Dean’s gun.

It’s a practiced routine. Castiel pretends to have humility, to care about a mortal life he doesn’t have as he kneels on the floor in front of Dean. Pretends that Dean has him at an impasse. 

Dean has Castiel at his mercy. 

Green eyes blazing, brows furrowed, lips set in a tight line, Dean presses the cool barrel of his gun against Castiel’s forehead. Eyes closing, Castiel inhales the smell of sharp metal, feels the weight of the loaded weapon infringing on his personal space. His safety. 

He’s safe.

Opening his eyes Castiel looks up at Dean, knees spread, palms on his thighs. Down to his knees. Fingers scratching. Tempted. Itchy. Wanting. 

Dean meets Castiel’s gaze. This is a familiar game. They’ll both win. 

Dean’s thumb reaches with little difficulty to pull back the hammer of the Colt. The ivory grips are freshly polished, shiny in the dim bunker lighting where they are in Dean’s room. Castiel feels the vibration of the barrel against his skin, minute, jumbling, fractional as the deadly weapon becomes a promise. This is Castiel’s favorite gun. Dean’s, too. Almost delicate with the intricate inlay of engravings, the white handle nearing feminine but quickly turning malicious cradled in Dean’s palm. 

Silence. Charged. Electric. Castiel keeps his eyes open as he parts his lips, tilting his head back sharply. The barrel of the gun leaves the skin of his forehead but Dean keeps it steady, Castiel the only one moving as he wraps his lips around the tip of the gun. Cold. Smooth. Tangy. Dean is poised grace, coiled tension, ready to snap. The gun is still. Castiel’s eyes lid slightly as he takes the barrel deeper into his mouth, tongue sliding along the underside. A moan. A groan. He pulls back with a wet, slurping sound and turns his head to lick along the side of the metal, tracing all of the pretty lines with the tip of his tongue. 

A short exhale leaves Dean’s nose. He stays still.

Castiel is fluid.

His lips make it all the way to where Dean’s forefinger is resting alongside the trigger, always safe, always _ready_ , and he kisses Dean’s knuckles. Soft. Warm. He moves back to sit on his haunches, the gun trained on his nose, and then drops his jaw in invitation. Dean takes the smallest step forward, sliding the tip of the gun into Castiel’s mouth. The metal clanks on the lower row of his teeth. Castiel can’t swallow, spit dribbling out of the corners of his mouth. All he can taste is death. 

Dean.

Measured, careful, Dean slides the gun further into Castiel’s mouth. The sight grates against the soft palate on the roof of Castiel’s mouth. He groans at the pain. More drool drips down onto his lap, wetting the tip of his loosened tie. Dean withdraws the gun minutely before pushing it back in, Castiel resisting the urge to close his eyes. He needs to look at Dean. Needs to see the want in his eyes. Needs to see the control, the clarity, the _strength_.

An attempt at a swallow has Castiel gagging slightly. Dean’s pupils blow. He removes a hand from the butt of his gun and grabs Castiel’s hair roughly, jerking his head back, the gun popping free from Castiel’s lips with a knock against his teeth and Dean rips Castiel’s head to the side, exposing the long column of his neck, pressing the barrel of the gun tight enough to Castiel’s temple to leave a circular mark. Castiel knows this. He reaches forward and undoes the fastenings of Dean’s belt and jeans with practiced quickness, exposing Dean’s hard cock. Castiel wastes no time in wrapping his fingers around the thick base and stroking tightly, panting, the pressure of the weapon against his head making his vision blur a little with arousal and pain. Dean steps forward, Castiel’s lips parting to now welcome the intrusion of velvety skin, Dean’s cock easily sliding down the awaiting passage of Castiel’s throat. 

Now he can swallow.

Dean’s fingers tighten in Castiel’s hair and he caresses the side of Castiel’s face with the gun, a phantom ice cold touch, and then he’s pressing the tip to Castiel’s cheek, pressure inwards to feel the slide of his cock in and out of Castiel’s mouth. Castiel can feel where his cheek is now touching Dean’s dick with the help of the gun. His eyes finally close. Dean thrusts a little harder, a little deeper, the gun pinching almost uncomfortably at Castiel’s skin. 

Perfect. 

Another yank and Castiel is pulled off of Dean’s dick, gasping, not really needing to but doing it anyway, licking his lips to chase the taste of Dean’s skin and the leftover tang of the gun. Dean is dropping to his knees, hand still in Castiel’s hair, keeping him in place as he attacks his mouth with his own, the kiss messy and sloppy and consuming. The barrel of the gun is now underneath Castiel’s jaw, right in the tender part underneath his tongue, pressing upwards and orgasm rips through Castiel violently, suddenly, stealing his breath and making his fingers dig into the flesh of his thighs as he comes inside of his pants.

Don’t touch Dean.

Dean huffs against Castiel’s mouth and pulls away, eyes wild, before he stands up again. He lets go of Castiel’s hair and the angel slumps only momentarily before gathering his strength and straightening, shoulders strong, spine erect, head tipped back expectantly. The gun presses against his temple again. Dean strokes his cock, never able to last long when he sees how he wrecks Castiel, and he spills onto Castiel’s awaiting tongue, painting it white. Mouth still open Castiel waits and is rewarded by the gun pushing past his lips again, pressing down on his tongue, smearing around the cum and shoving it towards the back of Castiel’s throat.

Swallow.

Choke.

Dean pulls bodily away, then, setting the safety on the gun and turning to drop it on his bed. He runs his hands through his hair, his pants still undone and hanging around his upper thighs, the curve of his ass exposed deliciously. Castiel looks with want. Looks away with shame. 

“Out.”

Castiel leaves, knowing this isn’t the last time. Knowing he’s been shot.

Dean Winchester is the most dangerous weapon ever invented.

**Author's Note:**

> choke me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/deansdaisydukes)


End file.
